


Burn

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Figging, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:57:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5598847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little play with figging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

He doesn't have to see it know what it is. The sharp, sweet smell fills the air as soon as Blackwood sets his knife to work, and Coward swallows, suddenly nervous. "Henry," he says, softly. 

"Hush," Blackwood tells him. Runs his thumb along the blade of the knife, wet and sticky, and raises his hand to Coward's face, smearing the liquid across Coward's lips. 

They tingle, begging to faintly burn. He touches the tip of his tongue to his upper lip, and Blackwood watches him intently. Bends down and kisses him, far softer and more carefully than is his wont, and licks his lips when he draws back. 

Blackwood takes his time carving the damn thing, until Coward is equal parts eagerly aroused and shy, huddling closer to Blackwood, as close as he will allow, but turning his face away when Blackwood slides a glance his way, curious. Finally, the soft sounds stop, and Blackwood sets the knife aside. Coward turns his face further away. Blackwood laughs, softly.

"Darling," he says, amused, and turns Coward's face back, into the light, his hands sticky on Coward's skin. Coward can feel the heat spread through his face, the blush rising, embarrassed and wanting and unable to properly express it. 

He doesn't have to, of course, because it's Blackwood, and Blackwood knows him too well. 

When Blackwood wraps his hands around Coward's cock, his fingers, palms, everything, are still sticky, still coated with juice, dragging against Coward's skin. For a moment, it registers only as heat and touch and glorious pleasure, Coward sighing and arching upward into Blackwood's hand. 

For a moment, it is nothing but pleasure. 

Blackwood's thumb rubs over the slit of Coward's cock, and a breath, two, later, he begins to burn, skin tingling, heating, almost itching. He whines, reaches a hand down, only to have his wrist snagged and brought back, above his head, pined. Blackwood sets his teeth to Coward's collarbone, worries at it as he presses his body down against Coward, flush, Coward pressing up against him, wanting, always wanting. 

He starts when Blackwood flips him, face down in the sheets, the fabric only making the burn at his cock worse, but he ruts into it all the same. There's something at his ass, a finger perhaps, wet, cold, and he flinches away from it. 

"Hold still," Blackwood commands, and he tries, Coward tries, but the intrusive push of – of not fingers, of the root, the ginger, sliding into him, bulbous, makes him shiver, shift. Blackwood settles it, brushes his fingers over Coward's ass, and then smacks him, once, hard. 

Coward yelps and jerks, and tightens around the ginger, involuntarily. Already he can start to feel the heat of it, the sting, melting away the chill of before. He shivers, presses back against Blackwood. Blackwood huffs a breath into Coward's shoulder and rolls him back over, settling in beside him. His hand slides down to Coward's cock, further, to his balls, and he touches Coward too softly, too lightly for relief. Coward shifts, and Blackwood looms over him, instantly, removing his hand from Coward's cock. "I told you to hold still," he hisses, and Coward flinches. 

But hold still. Holds still as Blackwood teases him, as Blackwood winds him up, as the heat from the ginger spreads, intensifies. Until it's a burn inundating his body, searing him, sharp and stinging and he wants to claw away at his skin, every move Blackwood makes causing those infinitesimal little flinches and quivers and _movements_ that make him clench around the ginger, shift against it, make it worse and worse and worse. Holds still, but Blackwood has said nothing about silence; so he moans, and whines, and whimpers, begs, pleading, gasping cries, desperate for it to stop, for Blackwood to touch him more, harder, for the ginger to replaced with Blackwood's cock, for something, something. 

Holds still, even as Blackwood ruts against him, cocks trapped between their bodies and damp with precome and sweat, even then, until finally, finally, Blackwood leans down and whispers, a bare breath of air, "Come," and Coward sucks in a breath himself, hungry, and obeys, unable not to. Shudders through his orgasm, clinging to the sheets, Blackwood overwhelming him, completely. 

And Blackwood - 

Blackwood doesn't stop. Continues to thrust into the slick mess on Coward's stomach, fingers sliding around to press at the nub of ginger, pushing it in and out of Coward. Coward whimpers, hands untangling from the sheets to push at Blackwood, to cling to him, as, impossibly, the burn intensifies, becomes such a searing pain that he can register nothing else, thrashing beneath Blackwood, moaning and keening, mindless, breaking apart beneath the relentless punishment of Blackwood's thrusting and the ginger's pulsing. 

Later, Blackwood will put him back together, will tell him how well he did, how gorgeous he looked, flushed and strung out and begging, will stroke him and hold him and Coward will drift, content, left with only the faintest bit of heat and no energy for anything, but now, now, as Blackwood sets his teeth in Coward's shoulder and bites, pins him down as he comes, each shuddering thrust accompanied by another clench of his fingers, inching the ginger out millimeter by millimeter, now, Blackwood is his destruction, and he is in ruins.


End file.
